Pompilia. It is almost impossible that it won't be one of the two hundred and fifty we sent in.
Parmenas. I drew up a list of synonyms which, I flatter myself, was practically exhaustive.
Priscilla. I dreamt I heard a voice saying quite clearly in my ear, "Nonsensical! nonsensical!"—like that—so I sent it in the first thing next morning.
Mr. S. These—ah—supernatural monitions are not vouchsafed to us without a purpose. It may be "nonsensical."
Mrs. S. The only two words I could think of were, "absurd" and "idiotic," and I'm afraid they haven't much chance.
Mr. S. I wouldn't say that, Sophronia. It is not always the most appropriate epithet that—let me run over the paragraph again—where is last week's paper? Ah, I have it. (He procures it and reads with unction.) "The lark, as has been frequently observed by the poets, is in the habit of ascending to high altitudes in the exercise of his vocal functions. Scientific meteorologists, it is true, do not consider that there is any immediate danger of a descent of the sky, but many bird-catchers of experience are of opinion that, should such a contingency happen, the number of these feathered songsters included in the catastrophe would, in all probability, be simply——" It might be "idiotic," of course, but I fancy "incalculable," or "appalling" would be nearer the mark.
Parmenas. Too obvious, I should say. If you had adopted a few more of the words I got from Roget's Thesaurus, we should have been safer. Sending in a word like "disgusting" was sheer waste of one-and-twopence! And as for Pompilia, with her synonyms to "sensational," and Priscilla, with her rubbishy superstition, depend upon it, they're no good!
Pompilia. You think you know so much, because you've been to London University—but we've been to a High School; so we're not absolute idiots. Parmenas!
Priscilla. And I'm sure people have dreamt which horse was going to win a race over and over again!
Mr. S. Come, come, let us have none of these unseemly disputes! And, when you compare a literary competition with—ah—a mere gambling transaction, Priscilla, you do a grave injustice to us all. You forget that we have, all of us, worked hard for success; we have given our whole thoughts and time to the subject. I have stayed at home from the office day after day. Your mother has had no leisure for the cares of the household; your brother has suspended his studies for his approaching examination, and your elder sister her labours at the East End—on purpose to devote our combined intelligence to the subject. And are we to be told that we are no better than the brainless multitude who speculate on horse-racing! I am not angry, my child, I am only—(Enter Robert, the Page, with a paper in a postal wrapper.) Tiddler's Miscellany—ha, at last! Why didn't you bring it up before, Sir? You must have known it was important!